Defying Gravity
by Lollipopdiego
Summary: There are few people in the world who put on a genuine smile, like shining stars among the dead. They are the rare ones defying gravity, soaring above with a compassionate love. Secret Santa gift for SweetieLove.


A/N: Hey, Char, is it weird that you're one of my best friends and I got you for secret santa? By the way, the only songs I used were On My Own and Defying Gravity. And I had something about a rose. Enjoy!

* * *

i. Joy

On Starry Night, he asks for a dance. The hearty glow of the fireplace assures the icy shivers snacking up her spine.

She imagines the flakes outside sprinkling towards the ground from above, swirling in dozens of mini tornados. People are spending their Starry Nights exchanges kisses in the snow and eating hearty dinners. The town is decorated with bold reds and merry greens, scents of goodies flooding from every window.

Meanwhile, she is here. Initially, she was expecting to spend Starry Night alone. When he had asked her, though, how could she say no?

Her stomach filled with carrot stew and cassava cake, she gives him a wary smile.

"Oh no, I can't dance," she hesitantly says, "Especially without any music." Actually, if it's possible, the music makes everything worst. Music means she has to step to the beat and stay consistent. Nevertheless, it's a good excuse.

To her surprise, he extends a pale firm hand, seemingly confident about a dance. "Who said anything about music?"

She reluctantly grasps his hand is immediately pulled to her feet. The wooden floor freaks under her weight. Sturdy hands flying to her hips and a steady gaze fixated on her, he says, "You're the Cosette to my Marius."

"Thank you," she says. She waits to feel giddiness and joy flood through her mind in a whirl of ecstatic emotions. She expects a smile to grow on her face and kiss him a hundred times, unable to believe that he has told her such a beautiful thing. However, all she can manage is a plastic smile.

It's sweet that her date went to the trouble to learn her favourite Broadways and ask to spend Starry Night with her by using references to all of them. In her mind, she seems him holding the blooming crimson rose now sitting in a vase, singing her excerpts from the Phantom of the opera. It was the most heartfelt thing anyone had some for her.

However, she can't shake off the knowledge that he is arrogant and that everything is a competition in his eyes. His affection towards her could be no more than a prize to him. She's seen him on dates and holding other girls in his arms.

She notices almost everything. She sees the anguish and drama flitting between friends, tension with parents and children. Out of the corner of her eye she catches the rolling eyes and sarcastic remarks and the lies that they tell.

Maybe she's just another toy in his game of girls, but she doesn't mind. It means it is one more person she can have fun with but doesn't have to become attached to.

She tries to enjoy herself while she can.

They sway from side to side, swishing against the mahogany floor in a clumsy grace. She wonders how she ends up here, in the farm house with one of the most successful people throughout the cluster of islands. It's strange how relationships form.

"Thank you for dancing with me," he says. "I think it's getting late though, and I have to wake up early to work."

She nods. "It's fine," she says, and begins to gather her things. None of her emotions are hurt in the slightest, because things like this have happened before. People have done sweet things and left her in the dust. Even if that person happened to be Mark and he's practically glowing with the happiness from tonight, she feels empty.

"I had a great night."

His teeth are pearly white and charming. Loose clothes frame the body underneath muscles from laborious work. Golden hair tousled and barely covering blue eyes, she wonders why he always covers his good looks with a sloppy baseball cap.

Her scarf and jacket swaddled around her body, she smiles at the farmer.

"Yeah, it wasn't too bad." It's the truth. "Thanks for tonight, Mark," she says, waving goodbye.

His joyful face haunts her mind.

* * *

ii. Tragedy

She never calls it depression.

Depression is mental disorder, typically with lack of energy and interest in living or success. Not to mention the feeling of rejection all the time because of severe unhappiness.

Her head was on perfectly straight. Besides, she wasn't thinking of unhappiness all the time. There are the odd times when she grins upon stumbling a rare jewel, or surges of affection like when Mark asked to spend Starry Night with her.

Basically, she calls the whole process releasing negative emotions and punishing herself. It was what she deserved and what she brought upon herself.

There is no future for her. With her work, she won't even earn enough money to support her and she can't be mining all her life. Searching the mines would be tedious, even travelling around to multiple islands. How long cans he be a traveller, redeeming her items or shoving them in the shipping box?

Outside, the streets are shining like silver. She thinks of skipping amongst the slush and pretending that someone is beside her, laughing alone. Now, she can make believe that someone is there for her. She likes to walk alone at night with an imaginary consultant. It's almost like talking to her conscience. With the trees filled with starlight and misty river lights, she walks along the snowy path towards her favourite place.

At about nine-thirty, she sits at a table in the corner of the diner, contemplating different possibilities of life. She could continue to spend time with Mark and eventually possibly marry him, or have her heart broken.

Most of the time, she is alone. No girl her age wants to talk to the one who spends her daylight hours scourging the mines. They manage their own jobs and have other interests.

People always look past her porcelain skin and ebony waves of hair. She is a wallflower, shy and blending with the grey wintry skies. Sometimes she wants to talk, but words are clenched up in her throat and she has a constant fear people around would judge her. That's what her family did, for eighteen years.

She shut her eyes, overwhelmed with emotions. Joy from Mark and insecurity and sadness and suspicion. Why did he ask her on a date? What was so special about her? She doesn't deserve this relationship and life. Everything she does is a disappointment.

Something in her mind urges, "Stop thinking like that. It's been a year since you left and it's over and done with."

_I'm fine, _she argues, but the face of her father flashes in her mind. She had been told every day that she was insensitive, ungrateful, and indifferent. The hours she spent foraging would be a waste. Her passion with mining wouldn't help her in the future and she would be unsuccessful.

And she believed every single word. She tries not to, now, but sometimes, the words sink into her mind and she feels hopeless.

It came to the point where she cried herself to sleep every other night and pushed away anyone offering help and guidance.

Then there are the cuts. There is something addicting about the way blood dripped from the slashes that brings her satisfaction. Scars that heals a jagged brown on her skin like paint strokes on a canvas. She loves it. And it's painful, but she thinks she deserves it.

Sometimes she thinks that one day she will go too far and slice a major blood vessel. But she doesn't imagine it will happen. She's a careful woman.

If she dies, what a tragedy it will be.

If anyone cares.

* * *

iii. Hope

"Good evening, beautiful."

Still inside the diner, she opens her eyes to meet sparkling blue ones. They are filled with concern and more warmth than Mark's ever is. She wonders why he doesn't have a date, because she can tell he's a genuine man. And good looking, too.

And he called her beautiful.

"Hello," she replies with a slight nod and smile. "Wonderful night is it."

"It is grand," he says, and she notes his formality and mature use of words. She likes the classiness and the way he makes casual jeans and a white jacket look good. He is also standing across the table with a paper cup of rich hot chocolate. She can smell the fumes from her spot.

"I suppose everyone is enjoying their Starry Night," he continues, tilting his head to the side. His blond hair falls in front of his eyes, and she nearly swoons like a high school girl.

"Evidently," she says, keeping her voice even.

He gestures to the cup of tea in her hands that has grown cold. Sounding concerned, he inquires, "Were you spending Starry Night alone in this diner?"

"No," she says. "I had dinner, but we ended it early because he has to work."

Without asking to her annoyance, he pulls over a chair, clucking his tongue. "No man should abandon his lovely lady at this hour. It is too early for departures."

His voice is smooth and with a distinct French accent. He reminds her of Marius from the Broadway Les Miserables. However, Marius is usually played with someone who has coppery hair. The man before her is blond. She has never seen him before around the islands.

"I suppose," she replies. "I'm perfectly fine though." But she is not.

"Very well," he says, although she can tell he doesn't believe her. "I wouldn't treat a lady like that, however. Do you know how I would treat a lady? You seem like the type who will listen to me."

"How?" she questions, pleased. She is the type who would listen to anyone who wanted her to.

He takes a deep breath, staring downwards and folding his hands over and over, nervous about his confession. For the few silent seconds, she assumes he won't say anything and walk away. If he says anything, she doesn't expect it to be anything grand or heartwarming. They had just met, and he is a complete stranger. Why blurt out things like how to treat a girl?

Finally, he blurts,

"I would be by her side as long as she wants her to, so when she's feeling sad or lonely or broken I can kiss the scars and hold her close. I'd try to give her absolutely anything she wants, whether or not she wants to admit it or not."

He has to be in a relationship. He is the sweetest person she has ever met. The pensive look in the man's eyes makes her heart skip a beat and the blood rush to her face. Averting her gaze towards her disgusting and cool tea, she doesn't dare to comment.

Then, he finishes, "And I'll be her shining armour. We'd be an indomitable team without limits. Some things we can't change, and I'm through with accepting the limits. I would help her defy gravity."

Instantly, her eyes flicker back to him, startled. "Is that a 'Wicked' reference?" she asks curiously. If she has at last found someone with similar interests with her, maybe she'll get to know him more. With her love of Broadway musicals, sometimes she feels so alone.

Thankfully, he's taken by surprise as well, looking at her with a shocked expression and somewhat embarrassed. But he nods and then said excitedly, "You know of Wicked?"

"Obviously," she says a little defensively. "It's one of my favourites. I mean, besides Les Miserables, of course. And Phantom of the Opera."

"Me too!" he surveys her with evident interest, and says, "May I ask to spend the rest of Starry Night with you?"

Now her face is bright pink.

There are some people in the world who are keen for attention, desperate for the presence of a friend or lover. She has seen the frantic desire in eyes and audacious actions to stir surrounding sympathy. There are some people who are arrant bullies, jeering their peers about disorders and appearances, cutting scars in their victim's minds.

Then there are the fewer who see past the cuts and weight and acne, viewing the strengths and beauty shovelled deep inside. They put on a genuine smile, like shining stars among the dead. They are the rare ones defying gravity, soaring above with a compassionate love. Whether the man before her is one of them or not, she doesn't know. But an instinct in her gut tells her she is.

Maybe he can be her happiness, even if it's just for a little while, the reason why her days are brighter and sadness drips away. She thinks of curling up on the couch with him, watching Broadway movies, and a smile grows on her face.

"Yes," she says carefully. "I suppose you can."

He smiles and extends a hand. "My name is Will."

Hope blossoming in her, she shakes it. "Lily."

* * *

A/N: So let me rant here. Lately I've been seeing all kinds of love in this world. There's a lot of "I love you" throwing around with teenagers today and I thought I'd show that a little with Mark. Then on Tumblr I saw someone ask my friend, "Would you ever date someone who self harms?" and he said, "I would, and I would kiss her scars every day and tell her how beautiful she is." Considering it's not uncommon for girls to be self harming especially today, I though it'd be a good thing to bring in. Then there in the genuine love, and I'll leave that to your imagination in this story. ;)

Also, I actually centred the story around Lily, so I hope you're fine with that. Merry Christmas, Char!

I know I didn't include everything in your wishlist, and I'm sorry. But let me give you a big hug to make up for that!

Love, Diego. :)


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